


The Contract

by Andriech



Series: Chekov & McCoy platonic [2]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 16:50:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20838824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andriech/pseuds/Andriech
Summary: Doctors on Starships don't get to choose their patients. McCoy struggles with his own fears and uncertainties, knowing Jim Kirk isn't about to transfer new Navigator just to please the medical staff. Complete in one chapter. Please R&R!





	The Contract

He’d never admit it to that damned Vulcan. After years in space, Leonard McCoy had found that humans were by far still the strangest beings a Doctor could encounter.

That thought weighed heavily on his mind as he stared at the medical record displayed on the computer screen before him. Jim Kirk was thrilled with his acquisition of the newest officer for his ship’s complement. It was not that he thought he needed a new officer in navigation--although anyone who had sat still next to the Captain during the last few months knew that to be a fact.

What had driven Kirk to go after this kid with unparalleled gusto during the first draft of the Academy’s graduating class was not his genius at navigation: that was just an added bonus. The new young officer had character.

A trait Jim Kirk both valued and sought, he would have passed over a highly skilled man for one that showed the least amount of character.

What convinced the Captain that this new officer had character McCoy didn’t know: the Doctor didn’t have his personnel file. He let the last of his dark black coffee seep slowly down his throat as he stared at the medical file on the monitor in front of him. The hair crawled up the back of his neck as he read. He set down the cup with a difficult sigh, thumbing the information up with trepidation.

Finally, he yanked the tape out and growled low in his throat.

“Len, are you okay?”

“Ya,” McCoy answered M’Benga, who had poked his head into the office. “It’s just that…hey!” he said suddenly, standing up. “No. No, I’m not okay. I’m a little under the weather this morning and I’ve got a physical scheduled to do.

“Can you take care of it?” he asked, thrusting the tape into the man’s hand before he got a response. “He’ll be here any minute if he’s on time. Thanks: I owe you.”

“What’s the matter?” the other Doctor asked with concern.

“Oh, it’s just…off-duty recreation,” McCoy answered, inspired. “I forget I’m not as young as I used to be. I’m going to lay down awhile until my body and brain catch up to each other.”

M’Benga eyed the tape as McCoy passed him on his way to his cabin. “Len,” he interjected curiously. “McCoy!”

The man trotted after him. “Len,” he insisted. “This is an initial physical: and for an officer, no less. Starfleet regulations require that all initial physicals for incoming crew be conducted by the Chief Medical Officer.”

McCoy waved him away as the door to his cabin slid open. “Hell, they’ll never know. I’ll sign it if it makes you feel better,” he added just as the door closed between them.

Letting his back fall against the bulkhead in the darkened cabin, he found that his heart was beating so hard he could hear it. _Damn it: hardly noble behavior for an experienced Starfleet officer. _

_A Starfleet officer: an officer owed the Fleet three years service for his Academy education. Three years. Damn it._

_Maybe the kid will get transferred_, McCoy thought hopefully_. Maybe I can help a transfer along. Damn it all to hell. There are downsides to being a Doctor._

“M’Benga!” He called out as he swung back out of the cabin, but found the man still standing there, a confused look on his face. McCoy pulled the computer tape back out of his hand.

“Never mind, I’ll do it.”

“Are you sure?”

The Chief Medical Officer hesitated and considered the tape in thought. “You can assist me,” he answered.

M’Benga followed him into the exam room. “You want me to assist for a physical,” he repeated, eyeing the Senior Officer strangely.

“Yes,” McCoy spat out, shooting a steely glare at him as he placed the tape next to the exam bed. “Is there a problem with that?”

The larger man stared at him a moment before answering. “No…Sir,” he said significantly. “You did ask me to complete those tests.”

McCoy shifted his jaw, wondering if he appeared as much an idiot as he felt. “Yes, I did. I can start the physical and you can join me when you’re finished.”

“Fine,” the man replied, eyeing him. “He’s here, I think,” he added and pointed to the outer room.

“Yes,” McCoy agreed as he recognized the young man from his file. _Hurry, damn you, M‘Benga: don‘t leave me here alone too long_, he thought as the man left_._

Having seen the Doctors as well, the newest member of the crew made his way into the exam room hesitatingly. Large, soulful brown eyes regarded McCoy warily.

“Doctor McCoy?” he asked.

A chill swept through the very core of the Doctor. The accented words had a tinny, alien ring to his ears. When he tried to answer, no sound came out. He cleared his throat. “Yes,” he finally managed to reply.

The young man bore his heritage clearly on his face. Under fine brown hair he had wide, Slavic cheekbones and a fine nose and lips. Wide, soulful brown eyes dominated his features: utterly expressive wells of emotion. A pretty fellow, he appeared exactly as young as he was: twenty-one and fresh out of the Academy. McCoy wondered how long it would take for him to loose his bright-eyed appearance.

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Chekov.” He flashed a bright smile: what he knew must be the thinnest smile he’d ever worn. For good measure he took his hand and gave the young man a resounding handshake. “How are you?”

The depthless brown eyes regarded McCoy warily still as he tried to rescue his hand from the Doctor’s pummeling. “Fine,” he replied hesitantly.

“Good!” The medical officer replied enthusiastically. “You look fine to me too. Well, you have a good tour: she’s a fine ship and a fine Captain. If you have any problems, you’ll know where to find me.”

The young man frowned, eyeing the Doctor strangely. “That’s…. it?”

McCoy sighed and scratched the back of his head. “Ah, sadly no.” He met the new man’s gaze then, blue eyes sparkling. “But we both had our hopes up there for a minute, didn’t we?”

Startled, Chekov straightened and watched as the older man walked further into the exam room.

“Join me,” he prompted the Ensign.

He cleared his throat again, not failing to notice the hesitatency with which the man approached. McCoy had never met this young man, but he had heard about him from the Captain. Some kind of boy genius in navigation, what Kirk spoke about the most was that the young man had a measure of both honor and character. What had brought him to that conclusion, the Doctor didn‘t know: but he did know honor and character in a person meant more to Jim Kirk than the finest training available.

“So I understand you’re going to be our new navigator,” he commented amiably.

“Those are the plans.”

“Meaning?” McCoy asked, turning to eye him darkly.

He shrugged. “I have to serve in every department before receiving my final posting from the Captain. Plans can change.”

The Doctor felt cold again even though he saw nothing methodical in the man’s warm brown eyes. “You don’t want to be a navigator?”

The soulful eyes settled on McCoy and stayed there, studying him. He felt his skin crawl and shifted to ease the sensation.

“I am a navigator,” Chekov finally answered simplistically. “I want to be a Captain.” Then he smiled: a sudden, wild, crooked smile that lit up his entire face and took over the depths of his eyes.

McCoy felt his breath intake sharply at the sudden, unexpected radiance in the man.

Chekov must have heard it…or sensed it, because the smile vanished as suddenly as it appeared. The brown eyes turned dark again and stared at McCoy with outright trepidation.

“I like to start with just some basics that test your level of fitness,” the Doctor ploughed on as though he didn’t see the look he was getting. “Can you touch your toes?” he asked.

The man hesitated, eyeing him. With a graceful, fluid movement then, the Ensign swept his right leg over his head and caught his foot with his left hand. “Like this?” he asked. “Or did you want me to touch my left foot?” Quickly, he exchanged legs.

McCoy planted a hand on his hip, lines furrowing through his forehead. _Wiseass._ “Can you touch them both at the same time?” he quickly bit out, knowing any inch he gave this man might prove his undoing ultimately. _In this case, that would be extremely bad._

The new Navigator bent in half and flattened his palms on the floor before his feet.

The Doctor shifted his jaw. It didn’t settle with him that the young man was proving the notations in his file about his personality true. That meant it all might be true. Chekov did, however, intrigue McCoy. The file and his readings told him that the Ensign‘s five six, small framed body was solid muscle. They couldn‘t tell him just how limber the man was. “Can you do that sitting down?” he asked with genuine interest.

Chekov straightened and the Doctor watched his jaw harden, his countenance darken. McCoy had pushed it beyond what the man felt acceptable. The man sat down on the floor without comment, however. Stretching his legs out before him, Chekov gracefully bent over and stretched forward until his hands touched his feet and his chest was pressed tight against his thighs.

“Oh my word!” The Head Nurse exclaimed brightly as she stopped at the door to the exam room. “Just how long did you study ballet, Ensign?” she asked, smiling easily.

The young man’s head snapped up and McCoy bit back a smile. _Busted._

“Just a few years,” he responded sheepishly, raising soulful eyes to gaze at her out from under long lashes. A charming smile played over his lips as he climbed to his feet. “It’s common training in Russia for children as it establishes a good foundation for other athletics.”

“It does,” McCoy agreed. “Balance, co-ordination…”

“Can you do the splits?” Chapel rushed on eagerly, oblivious of the Doctor as she stepped into the room.

The Navigator made a dramatic show of tipping over to study his legs. Looking up, his wide brown eyes bathed her with warmth and he flashed a devilishly brilliant smile. “Not in these pants, M'am.

“Perhaps another day in the gym,” Chekov continued with his winning smile. “Do you like ballet?”

She drew the clipboard in her hand against her chest as other female sickbay staff began to gather behind her. “I am the biggest fan of Boris Alexesandrovich,” she asked, referring to the current lead male dancer at the Marinisky Theater. “You haven’t actually seen him in person, have you?”

“I studied in the same class with him.”

“No!”

“I do not lie: especially not to such beautiful ladies!” he said innocently, his accent growing thicker as his eyes sparkled.

She drew a hand along his cheek. “Oh, Nytoya did warn me that you’re a sweetheart. So why didn’t you continue studying with Boris?”

“He was good, I was not so good.”

“So you’re not a good dancer,” she acknowledged with a note of pity in her voice.

“Not such a good ballet dancer,” he corrected. “I will arrange for the two of you to exchange messages, if you like.”

“You’re not serious!”

“I do not lie,” the young man repeated petulantly, his pout a shadow on his face.

_Oh, good God, _McCoy thought as he watched the two speak. He studied the new Navigator as his big, brown soulful eyes sparkled and toyed with the woman. His smile was mesmerizing: a brilliant affair that drew other nurses around him as it alternated from shy to overpowering. His accent varied in the same way. _Manipulative shit, he knows exactly what he’s doing._

This reminded the Doctor of the medical file he’d received and he swallowed hard.

“Mr. Chekov,” he bit out sharply. “If we could continue, please?”

Eyes growing dark, the smile instantly faded off the young man’s face as he glanced sharply and menacingly at the Doctor. “Yes, Sir,” was his subdued answer, however.

McCoy gave a pointed look at the women as he closed the door that led into the main area of sickbay. “Up on the bed,” he instructed Chekov without fanfare.

He watched as the man eyed the bed tentatively before he edged up onto it. The Navigator started as the bed’s display sprang on. McCoy strolled closer slowly, intrigued with the way he lay down hesitantly, as if half expecting for the bed itself to turn on him.

“You aren’t going to hurt me, are you?” the young man ventured quietly as the Doctor paused by the bedside.

“Not if you don’t hurt me,” came McCoy’s instant retort.

Chekov sat up quickly, leaning on his elbows as he shot the Doctor a dark look. “Did you just threaten me?” he demanded.

McCoy hesitated, steely eyes widening to meet the challenge. “Let’s just call it a contract: you don’t hurt me and I won’t hurt you.”

The younger man studied him a moment in thought. “A contract?”

“Yes,” he replied with a nod. “First clause. We’ll negotiate the rest as we go along. Lie down,” he rasped.

The Navigator moved to comply, but again showed hesitancy, noticeably jerking in response to every sound the exam equipment made.

“Hold on,” McCoy interrupted. He reached across the bed, but jerked suddenly, stumbling back a few steps when Chekov sat up, lurching forward in response to the Doctor‘s intrusion. When their gaze met the dark eyes showed clear understanding that the Enterprise‘s Chief Medical Officer obviously knew about the young man‘s medical history. The Doctor refused to show he was cowed, however.

Instead, he merely changed his tactic and walked around to the other side of the bed. He reached up behind Chekov‘s head and indicated each bar reading in turn.

“Blood pressure; good. Heart rate: also good.”

“High,” came the young man‘s comment, his wide eyes resting on the readings as he twisted back to look at them.

“They‘re high for you?” asked McCoy with mild interest. “Well, your record will show me that.” McCoy cleared his throat at the mention of the man’s record, feeling his heart seize up. He pushed on through the attack of nerves.

“This reading,” he continued, pointing to an actual lack of reading. “Is the amount of pain you’re feeling: it says none. I hope that’s correct.” The Doctor skipped the next sky-high, angry streak of red and continued on through the rest of the readings. The actual interest the Navigator was showing in McCoy‘s explanation both surprised and calmed the older man. Chekov‘s voice interrupted his train of thought.

“What is that one?”

_Damn_, the Doctor thought as he stared at the reading he had avoided. _The kid is sharp._ He shifted while he thought of an answer. “Basically, that tells me how anxious you are,” he replied. “This particular reading most likely explains the rise you noticed in your blood pressure and heart rate.”

_Hell, he‘s terrified,_ McCoy considered soberly. _And he‘s handling it a hell of a lot better than I am. Maybe that’s what Kirk saw in his file. _

_File, _the Doctor thought. _File._ He had a sudden idea.

“Go ahead and sit up: I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into his office and began a considerable amount of rummaging.

A sound made him look up and he saw that M‘Benga had entered the exam room. As though watching the scene of an accident in slow motion, riveted by morbid curiosity, the Chief Medical Officer watched as the other Doctor introduced himself and attempted to initiate what should have been routine tests.

True to his file, Chekov reacted violently: lashing out at the man and snarling viciously. Also in that file was that other note that McCoy had suddenly remembered and he grinned slyly, feeling victorious. He returned to the exam room and the new officer swiftly, carrying a rough black leather case, clipboard and stylus. The Doctor rested them on the bed next to the Ensign.

“Mr. Chekov…”

“I do not think it is necessary to have two Doctor’s present for a simple physical.”

The dark eyes that bore through him were downright demonic, the all-too polite words snarled through clenched teeth.

Yes, the words were polite, despite what McCoy could see the readings still said about the way Chekov was feeling. The Doctor expected something more along the lines of _get him the hell out of here…_

His blue eyes dared to seek out and hold the gaze of the younger man. McCoy could see the rapid breathing without the need for instruments. The soft brown eyes were unwavering under the Doctor’s scrutiny however. The Chief Medical Officer straightened slightly.

“Doctor M‘Benga, that’ll be all. Thank-you.”

The tall, dark man gave him a look as though his boss had lost his mind before leaving the exam room without comment.

“Ensign,” McCoy continued amiably to the younger man as he pulled open the bag he had brought with him. “Those readings are usually accurate, but it never hurts to be sure. Do you know what this is?”

“It’s a stethoscope,” he replied with an indignant scowl.

“Smart boy,” the Doctor commented, handing it to him. “Here, use it,” he prodded as he dug through the bag again. He pulled out a more complicated device.

“So what do you hear?”

“My heartbeat,” Chekov retorted, eyeing the Doctor with a look no less strange than M‘Benga had.

“Well, I suppose that means we continue on with this physical. Let me have your arm. Have you seen this before?”

Chekov eyed the device curiously. McCoy wrapped a soft, wide belt around his upper arm. “I’ve seen it in a museum. What is it?”

“A sphygmomanometer,” the Doctor replied. “It measures your blood pressure. I inflate it on your arm and you tell me what your blood pressure is by using the stethoscope. Tell me when your pulse starts, then when it stops.”

“If it stops, I die,” the Navigator declared.

“The sound: just the sound,” he spat back with irritation. “Tell me when you hear the sound start and stop.”

The Ensign tensed as McCoy pressed the stethoscope end against the crook of his arm and took hold of the inflator.

“Is this going to hurt?” he demanded quickly, scowling.

“Well, no…” the Doctor stopped then. His steely blue eyes held the younger man’s wide gaze a long moment. “Yes,” he corrected. “Yes, it’s going to hurt: but if you can’t take this pain, you sure as hell don’t belong in Starfleet.”

Together, they took the man’s blood pressure: a process which McCoy noticed seemed to fascinate the Ensign. “I need your pulse,” he added as he stored his Grandmother’s equipment back into the old black bag. Not surprisingly, Chekov had the number by the time he closed the bag. It was also not surprising to the Doctor that it was lower than the exam bed’s initial reading. He felt vindicated.

_Control_. That was the key. A simple word buried deep in a medical record. M’Benga had introduced himself, but he had failed to explain what he was doing and why. He had failed to give Chekov a choice. _Hell, kid, if you want control you’ll get it_, McCoy thought vehemently.

He pulled the case M’Benga had brought into the room over to the bed. “You’ve seen one of these before?” he asked needlessly, holding up the hypo.

Chekov nodded silently, glancing away furtively: but not before the Doctor saw the flash of pain in the depths of his eyes.

“Do you know how to operate one?”

The man nodded silently again without looking back at the Doctor.

“Are you sure?” McCoy persisted, studying him.

He turned hollow, soulful eyes on the Chief Medical Officer. “Doctor,” he replied quietly. “I self-administered my meds at the Chapman Clinic. Every day. Many times. Every day.”

“Good,” the Doctor responded quickly. He avoided responding to the hallow, deathly hoarseness in the voice. “For a complete physical, Starfleet requires various samples for…well, now,” he drawled with a grin, “Probably just to annoy the both of us.

“There’s the hypo: it’s set to collect, not administer. The vials are there and they match the settings on the hypo. I’m sure you can figure it out; I’m told you’re a bright boy.

“I’ll be back soon,” McCoy added as he strode out of the exam room and into his office. He sat down heavily and stared dismally at the computer monitor, as if he could see the young man’s medical file there.

Now sitting, he could feel the tension in every cell of his body as a thrum that worked its way deep into the base of his skull. This hadn’t been so bad…so far, he reasoned.

The tension settled on a foundation of basic fear and McCoy was not above admitting it. Could he…had he…somehow found a way to work with the new Navigator? He replaced his grandmother’s medical bag.

“Bones! Are you going to grab lunch with me?” Kirk asked, grabbing onto the doorframe and leaning into the room.

“Sorry, I’ve got a physical I’m doing.” He indicated the exam room beyond his office’s one-way mirror.

Lines furrowed through Kirk’s forehead beneath his tawny hair as he watched the young man‘s intense activities. “Chekov,” he identified. “I didn’t realize you had the crew doing their own physicals now,” he chided with a wry grin.

“Hell of a time saver,” McCoy rasped. “You asking for advice on how to run the ship?”

Pursing his lips, the Captain eyed his Chief Medical Officer. “Something up?” he asked. “Is there something I should know about Chekov?”

McCoy stilled, slowly raising his eyes to his commanding officer. _Hell, yes…_he thought, wanting desperately to spew out to the Captain the contents of the medical file. _None of his business,_ he chided himself, _unless it related to ship’s business. Please just get rid of this kid for me, Jim._

“So far, what I can tell you,” was the expected response that he came up with, “Is that physically he’s in good shape: very athletic even though he‘s got a small build…and he’s limber,” he added as an afterthought and with a smirk. “Very limber.”

Kirk’s scrutiny of his friend turned quizzical. He grinned. “Limber?”

“Don’t ask,” McCoy rasped. “I’ll catch you later, Jim,” he added as he moved to rejoin his patient. It didn’t seem particularly wise to leave Chekov unoccupied for too long.

“All set?” he asked as the man handed the tray back to him. It was not only complete but in meticulous order: better than any of his staff would have presented it to him. “Yes,” he commented. “Looks good.”

McCoy turned to place the tray aside, but the man’s clear voice made him hesitate.

“This is part of our contract?”

The Doctor gave him a sidelong glance, studying the deep brown eyes. He nodded after a moment. “Yes,” he agreed. “Our contract.”

Straightening noticeably, this idea seemed to set well with the Navigator.

McCoy studied the young man after he turned to face him. “I'll explain anything I plan to do and tell you why. You, of course, can refuse.” He leaned closer. “Then I’ll tell you why I’m doing it anyway.

“Lie down,” he added as he turned away. “We’ll try to get through this as quickly as possible. Then you can come back this afternoon for the second half of the exam.”

Chekov’s head shot up, clear horror deep in his eyes as he glared at the Doctor.

“Lie down,” McCoy snarled and actually pushed the man’s forehead back down. His hand was trembling slightly when he did so.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

McCoy was strolling through information on Ensign Chekov again on the computer monitor, only this time it was current readings: not his medical history. It did little to quiet his unease, because he remembered the details of the file he had read earlier. The current readings, themselves, were also sobering

“Doctor McCoy?”

Blue eyes rose to the young man standing in the doorway of his office. Exactly on time again. Although his wide brown eyes were wary, he carried a bottle of wine in one hand and a large rectangular sack over the other shoulder. He was making it clear that he had no intention of being in McCoy’s office for any significant amount of time.

“Please have a seat, Ensign.”

The man did so, resting the bottle of wine on the Doctor’s desk.

“Well, Mr. Chekov, I have your results so far here,” he prattled easily. “You’re in excellent physical condition with a large percentage of muscle mass. Do you lift weights?”

The Navigator scowled. “What for?”

“But you do work out in the gym,” he observed without mentioning how limber the man was.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Why?”

Chekov straightened, scowling at the Doctor again. “There are women there. In very little clothing.”

McCoy looked away, grinning. “The problem is our body fat percentage is what helps humans fight off infection: you need to increase yours.

“You also have a very high metabolism, so I want you increase the amount you’re eating.”

“That’s not possible,” the man replied evenly.

The Doctor glanced up at the flat tone and Chekov simply shrugged. “Ask anyone who knows me: I couldn’t possibly eat more than I do. I don’t get sick,” he added.

“Oh really?” he asked, amused.

“No. I don’t get colds or virus’.”

“Well, so we won’t be seeing much of each other, I take it.”

Chekov didn’t answer, just stared silently at the ship’s Chief Medical Officer, his dark eyes unreadable. It unnerved the Doctor.

Not a good way to start the second half of the exam, thought McCoy. He supposed there was no way around it. He leaned back and sighed slightly.

“I notice in your record that your parents were both cultural anthropologists and you traveled with them while growing up.”

“Yes,” came the reply.

“Moving about all the time must have been difficult. Unable to have long term friendships, go to school…did you feel adrift, without any real roots?”

The Navigator’s dark eyes stared at him stolidly for a long moment. He bent forward then, folding his arms and leaning on the desk. “My parents brought me everywhere they went. Doctor, I felt wanted.”

He leaned back, then shrugged luxuriously. “I also was advanced in my schooling because I had all tutors, and I learned to speak a lot of languages in our travels.”

The Doctor nodded. “Yes, the language center in the human brain absorbs new languages quickly at young ages.”

“Is your specialty psychiatry?”

“No, I’m a surgeon.”

“Then is there a point to actually going through all this? I’m sure the Academy psychological testing was quite thorough: just read the file.”“Yes, the standard testing is there, but in fact,” McCoy commented. “There doesn’t seem to be a lot of notations by the Academy medical staff in your file.”

“Yes, well, they avoided me,” Chekov said bluntly. "Just like at the Clinic--I seem to have that affect on Doctors."

Blue eyes sparkling with amusement, the Doctor gave him a sly smile. “Now, I can’t imagine why,” he drawled.

The young man scowled at him.

“What does human blood taste like?” McCoy demanded suddenly.

The Navigator's dark eyes fluttered up to the Doctor and stayed there firmly. “Surely you’ve sucked on a paper cut,” he replied finally.

“I’ve never drank down vast quantities of it. I have also never tasted human flesh,” he rasped.

Chekov rolled his eyes, drawing them away from the medical officer and shrugging. “Tastes like chicken,” he quipped.

“Do you think everything is funny?” McCoy demanded with a snarl.

“Yes, pretty much so,” he admitted.

“What you did to those Doctors at the Clinic had no humor in it,” the Doctor bit out.

The man rolled his shoulders in a shrug again. “Got my point across," he muttered, then continued louder: "I was angry and they got in the way. Actually, it’s the taste of human bone that’s unexpected,” he added brightly.

Despite himself, McCoy felt the blood drain from his face.

The dark eyes regarded him with humor. “You’re not planning to make me angry, are you?” Before he could reply, the younger man leaned on the edge of the desk. “Why did you send your bodyguard away?”

“What…?” the Doctor began, but then realized the young man was, indeed, keen-witted. “Dr. M’Benga,” he acknowledged. “Yes, well…” Why had he done what the new officer had asked?

“You trusted me,” was McCoy’s answer finally. “It only bore out that I extend the same to you.

“He’s a good Doctor, you’ll have to get used to him.”

“Not as good as you. I don’t want him treating me.”

McCoy began an immediate protest, but then noticed how the younger man’s jaw tightened, his skin graying. “Situations arise that may make it necessary to recieve medical attention from whatever staff is available,” he commented. “But the contract agrees I am your primary physician,” he identified.

The word sparked something in Chekov and the Doctor saw his dark eyes gleam. “Contract,” he repeated, nodding. He sat there in silence a long moment, shades of hesitancy playing over his face. McCoy saw a shift in the color of his eyes and he knew he had come to a decision. Chekov swallowed before he spoke.

"When I was at the Chapman Clinic I was--uncomfortable," he explained quietly. "Having all those Doctors and nurses and technicians and procedures..." he stopped, shuddering visably. "Being...uncomfortable...and being pestered all the time by those busy, nagging..." his voice trailed off again, but McCoy didn't need the young man to elaborate.

The Doctor folded his hands in his lap. "Son, every patient has the right to direct the course of his medical treatment: including refusing treatment. Don't ever apologize for having a backbone. Sometimes we get so involved in getting a patient well, we forget there's person putting up with us as well." He silenced for a moment and bit his lip gently in thought. "You would do well to work on your communication skills, however."

He saw Chekov's eyes sparkle wickedly as he fought back an impish smirk.

"You were 'uncomfortable' while you were at the Clinic?" McCoy felt safe in continuing carefully, eyeing the Navigator-to-be.

"Yes," the man gestured broadly with a dramatic shrug. "I had an accident: the Chapman Rehab Clinic is the finest in the galaxy. Don't act like it's not in my file," he challenged, his accent growing thicker.

"It's in your file," the Doctor agreed. He had not just seen the file, he had seen the ravages the 'accident' had left on the young man's body. Blue eyes remained fixed on Chekov as the silence stretched between them. "Son," he asked quietly. "What do you consider pain?"

A stillness came over him and he averted his eyes from the Doctor's. McCoy let him sit there, feeling no compulsion to do anything while waiting for an answer.

"I don't usually notice pain," he finally murmured vaguely in response. "It doesn't bother me." He cleared his throat. "Well, except when it's a sudden surprise.

"You stopped calling me 'boy'," he observed.

McCoy smiled. Kirk was right, he thought. Quick-witted, clever and observant: the young man had the makings of a fine officer. "You forget, I've examined you. Anyone who's fought as hard as you have to get to where you are is no boy...and hasn't been for a long time."

Wide brown eyes rising to meet the Doctor's steel blue ones at this, the basic respect he saw in them he acknowledged without comment. He bent over then and reached into the bag he’d placed on the floor. "I hear we have common ground, so I brought you something.” When he straightened, his hand contained two large round balls: their color brilliant in the dismal gray universe of a deep space ship. He held out one to the Doctor.

“Good God Almighty!” McCoy exclaimed, grabbing it and pressing the rough, scented skin against his nose and mouth in sinful delight. “Where on Earth did you get oranges?”

“On Earth,” Chekov replied in maddening simplicity, ripping the rind of his orange open and sending a spray of scent into the air. “In particular, these oranges come from Georgia: best citrus fruit on Earth. I have some in my purser's stores.”

That made sense, the Doctor thought as he tore into his own precious fruit. Officer’s all had an assigned storage section in the purser’s stores and having just come aboard, there was no telling the treasures that Chekov had hidden away in his.

“I also brought you this Georgian wine: no finer vintage in the Galaxy.”

“I wasn’t aware they made any spirits in Georgia besides ‘shine,” McCoy muttered. “And how does this relate to us supposedly having something in common?” he asked, recalling the man’s earlier words as he picked up the bottle and studied it.

“We’re both Georgian,” the Navigator said simply.

McCoy stopped and blinked, the ignored orange section disintegrating in his mouth. “Son,” he finally drawled with a fine Southern accent. “If your record didn’t say so, your classic Muscovite features and big puppy dog eyes identify you as a Russian instantly.”

The sudden, dark glance and tightened jaw told the Doctor he’d hit some button, but he couldn’t begin to comprehend why. Ensign Chekov seemed to have more buttons than any man rightly deserved.

He made a show of carefully replacing his orange rind in the bag on the floor. When he straightened he cleared his throat but did not meet McCoy’s eyes. “Doctor,” he said, subdued. “It’s an insult to call a Russian a Muscovite. It…means they’re pretentious, uppity or putting on airs.”

“I didn’t realize that,” McCoy explained quietly in apology, but a survey of the younger man’s face told him it was hardly his largest mistake. “And?” he prompted.

The dark eyes did glance at him this time, although they flitted on past him almost immediately. Chekov swallowed hard. “You never use the word ‘puppy’ in a description of a Russian man--not if you want to live.”

The Doctor grinned instantly, laughing as he worked on the wine bottle’s stopper. “Mr. Chekov, puppies are almost universally considered cute, adorable and irresistible. You cannot tell me that you don’t inspire those sentiments in the females around you.”

The comment caused the color to flash into the Navigator’s cheeks. His warm, soulful eyes did touch McCoy’s this time. “Doctor, in Russia puppies are small men…” He sighed and scratched his head before continuing.

“Puppies in Russia are small men that are retarded, emasculated runts that are incapable of functioning either as men or adult members of society. They will always need to be taken care of and are therefore a burden to the community rather than anyone who could contribute.”

“Oh,” the Chief Medical Officer said after a moment of silence. “Then I imagine you would have preferred to punch me.”

In honesty, Chekov nodded. “I know you didn’t mean it like that, though…it just felt like you did.”

“Having cultural anthropologists as parents must help in your basic understanding of cultural differences,” the Doctor observed, but he didn’t pause long enough to let the other man respond. He reached behind him to retrieve glasses off a shelf and then fixed the man with steely eyes.

“Are you actually trying to tell me that you’re an American from Georgia--of Russian ancestry?” The notion wouldn’t be all that ludicrous if it wasn’t for the man’s pervasive accent.

An easy, bright smile flashed over Chekov’s face and sparkled in the warm brown eyes. “That is an interesting idea.” He puzzled with such seriousness it caused the Doctor to chuckle. “But no,” he continued. “I mean I’m Georgian from the country of Georgia.”

“The country of Georgia?” McCoy repeated, staring down into the glass in his hand. “This is good wine,” he mumbled as an afterthought.

“American’s are so hopeless at geography,” the new Navigator sighed. “Russia is just the largest country in the Independent States of the Russian Federation. There is also the Ukraine, Georgia, Belarus, Khakastan, Uzbekistan…”

“So you’re not actually Russian?”

Chekov squirmed sheepishly. “With this face? Yes, of course I’m Russian--my mother and her relatives are Great Russians: that’s what actual Russian people are called. My father and his relatives, though, are Georgian.” He tapped his temple. “I have his dark eyes.”

“One would wonder what he’s doing for eyes then,” McCoy commented as he refilled his glass. “So your eyes are the only trait you share with him?” he asked with mild interest.

“Well, no,” the younger man replied quietly. “Georgian men have a reputation for being Don Juan and Valentino melded together. The Georgian government still objects to women traveling in the country alone. Georgian men also supposedly are darker, hairy and have certain attributes that…well, women seek.” Chekov yanked up his sleeve unceremoniously to reveal the thick, dark hair on his arm.

“I’m your Doctor,” McCoy scowled. “I’ve seen your attributes. I‘m not thrilled, however, to find that your charm may actually be genetic--if that's possible.”

“Are you hungry?” the younger man asked, ignoring the Doctor’s pointed jibe. "I don't advertise my Georgian heritage," he commented as he leaned back over and reached into his bag again. "Despite your initial thoughts, it has its disadvantages. I assume you'll treat it as privileged information."

Chekov straightened and held up a wide thermal container. “It’s dinnertime and you did tell me not to miss meals. I thought you might join me. Have you plates or bowls?”

McCoy’s instant refusal was swept away by the assault of smells on his senses when the young man opened the container. No smell duplicated genuine meat and fresh vegetables from Earth. How much meat the man had brought with him was a question that consumed the Doctor instantly. Such a store never lasted long…especially if an officer was wont to share his good fortune, as Chekov obviously was.

A heaping portion of a thick stew is what the Navigator ladled out onto his plate. In the dark broth were massive chunks of real meat, mushrooms, carrots, onions, parsnips and potatoes. The Doctor groaned out loud as the first taste assaulted him. “This is incredible. Don’t tell me the cook managed to come up with this--even with your ingredients.”

“I did help him,” the Navigator confessed, and in the word 'help' McCoy heard 'taught'. “Bread?” Chekov smirked as the man grabbed without shame for the offered treat. “It’s Russian black bread,” he warned.

“I like pumpernickel,” the Doctor said dismissively, but straightened as he chewed and the unusual flavor assaulted him. “Oh, not pumpernickel,” he commented. “It’s good,” he pronounced.

“I’m glad you approve.”

The Navigator slowly chewed on the morsels, watching the Doctor as he devoured his own portion. He ladled more on the Doctor’s plate when appropriate.

“What’s this meat?” McCoy asked. “Not anything domesticated…beef, buffalo, ostrich.”

“No,” Chekov agreed. “They tried to domesticate them, but they couldn’t. It’s actually my favorite meat: they’re beautiful, although headstrong.”

“What?” the Doctor prompted, some alarm creeping into his voice. “It’s not venison.”

“No, no,” the younger man agreed. “Close though: it’s reindeer. Nomads in Siberia raise Ninety percent of the Earth’s population. Sulu gags on it though--he has some sort of hang-up about Rudolph.

“I’ve told him,” he insisted, dark eyes gleaming intensely as he leaned in toward McCoy, “That the instant any reindeer is born with a red nose they call Santa immediately so he can whisk down and pick him up.”

The Doctor laughed out loud despite himself. “I thought Santa didn’t hang around Russia.”

“No,” the younger man agreed again. “Father Frost and his daughter, the Snow Maiden, delivers our presents and he doesn’t use reindeer: but we know about Santa and have no objection to providing him all the magic animals we come across.”

“Mighty sporting of you.”

Chekov lapsed into silence and leaned back again, watching McCoy as he continued eating. He shifted and cleared his throat softly. “Doctor Chapman actually put in my file that I…”

The Doctor stopped eating, raising his eyes to stare at the new officer. “Have an appetite for Doctor’s?”

“Interesting way of putting it,” came the wry observation as the young man's face grayed.

“It’s professional courtesy to pass on all information that might be important to future medical personnel,” McCoy noted. This time it was him that leaned over the desk. “I may not know exactly what the accident was that caused your damage, son, but let’s not candy-coat this. You've developed a discomfort with the medical profession that you need to deal with. Children bite: and I'm not sure we can call your past time biting."

“I have strong jaw muscles,” he snapped defensively in reply. “What else did he put in my record?”

The Doctor leaned back, sighing as his blue eyes sparkled. “Well, let’s just say if you don’t show up for an appointment I'll know where to find you.” He smiled warmly when Chekov flushed.

“I’m a little old for that,” he said curtly in an obvious effort to regain some dignity.

“But not too big," McCoy observed. "I'm having a closet emptied and adapted with a strong lock in case you break our contract and that solution is necessary.”

The man’s jaw tightened. “Well, now, Dr. Bob did do a lot of chatting in my file, didn’t he?”

McCoy shrugged non-committedly. It had disturbed him when he first read it, but after having met Chekov, he now found it enchanting that Dr. Chapman had controlled the young man’s wild tantrums by putting him in a closet. “It’s your file. You can read it if you want, you know.”

The hesitantency in the young man’s countenance told McCoy that if he’d known it, Chekov certainly had not considered the option. "The closet door was never locked," was his only comment.

The Doctor drained the wine glass, studying the Russian. "When did you find that out?" he asked.

"I always knew it. He knew I just needed a space...to do what I needed to do."

"Do you anticipate 'needing space' while you're aboard?" McCoy goaded.

"Why, Sir, are you planning to rip a piece of my leg off?" Chekov answered as he stood up. “You can have the rest,” he continued, indicating the food. “Share it with someone. Are we done, or do I need more psychoanalyzing?”

“I think we’re done,” the Doctor agreed. “Thank-you for the food.”

Chekov remained standing there, staring at the ship’s Chief Medical Officer hesitantly. “We have a contract, Doctor?”

McCoy nodded slowly. “A contract.

“Mr. Chekov,” he added. The young man paused at the door and turned back curiously. His warm, expressive dark eyes stared at the Doctor out of the sweet, innocent face of an angel.

McCoy’s hand reached down into his Grandmother’s bag. He leaned back in his chair then and propped the heels of his boots luxuriously on the desk.

“Your smile is one of your best features, Ensign.” Steely blue eyes fixing on Chekov, the Doctor dropped a crude set of steel pliers next to his plate.

“Don’t make me change that.”


End file.
